My feeble attempt at Poetry

Closing time


Oh how I loathe the closing shift.

After the music is cut off

It’s time to clean up after everyone who’s been through

21Men and Heritage, the pigsty left behind.

Folding and hanging,

straightening up,

picking up clothes off the floor,

going back and forth

from the dressing room to the sales floor

to put everything back where it belongs.

Hours just drag on during this shift,

time ticking as I continue to fold and hang,

check behind the mirrors, underneath the racks,

make sure nothing is left behind.

Tags found below the racks need to be reported,

Sensors beneath shirts also need to reported.

Besides making sure that the tags are tucked in,

Between the mannequins and the clothes, before midnight

everything needs to be set in place.

Finally near midnight, I depart.

Despite not being able to finish putting everything away,

the opener will take care of it

while at night, the same female is about to begin her shift.

Joy…yet another closing for me.




Working at retail is no joy.

Better than a restaurant for sure,

down in retail I come home smelling nice

while at a restaurant I would come back

stinking with the smell from whatever the catch of the day was.

As much as I hate retail, I’m not anti-retail since

stupidity is easier to deal with by just walking away

except those that like following the employee

after the questions are answered.

Minus those who like to hit on the pretty girls on the sales floor,

all because they think they’re a cut above the rest.

It’s slightly better than the strangest things I get.

I respect their choices, unlike some stingy people

but, men trying on women’s clothes inside my men’s dressing room,

is still something that baffles me.

Beyond all reason, I can’t get past this.

Considering the fact I’m not very feminine,

the thought of a man being more feminine than myself,

is something quite ironic.


Will all of my feeble attempts at Poetry be like this?

Until I manage to completely grasp the fact that

I still don’t know what I get myself into

when I find it upon myself to write poetry;

I’ll probably continue to be the opposite of inspired

when faced with poetry.

Being outside of the concept,

I still have no idea what I’m talking about.

Over and over, I rack my brain.

Round and Round my thoughts spin,

amid Kpop songs,

among fiction ideas,

beside video game characters,

towards the little corner of my brain,

where the little concept of poetry is hidden within.


Since I’m half asleep

and under minor amounts of leg ache,

I’ll try and end this here.

Without all the prepositions on the list.

I’ve managed to do more than half of the list,

along with attempting to sneak in a few more.

Plus another one here and there,

via little unlikely witty quirks.

Versus carefully thought out lines,

regarding a particular subject,

toward a particular aim,

under the lines,

before the thoughts,

across my mind.

I’ll stop,

save for these last few ones,

completely exhausted

with all of these attempts of me being witty.

Good night all!



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